


Interlude: The Isle of Wight Temptation (Or: How Aziraphale Came to be Thrown Off a Ferry)

by bene_elim



Series: Innocence and Experience [5]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: (i only make one vague mention of the cold war and also something brief about early mobile phones), (though youd never know it bc i never mention the date), 1980s, Angst, Aziraphale Whump (Good Omens), Aziraphale has a terrible horrible awful day, Aziraphale: anything for you my dear, But only a little, Crowley: do this job for me angel it'll be fine, Drowning, Gen, Gift Giving, Hurt Aziraphale (Good Omens), Hurt/Comfort, In comparison to the other interlude in this series this one has a Lot of plot, Isle of Wight, M/M, Near Death Experiences, Pre-Relationship, Sad Aziraphale (Good Omens), Temptation, can be read as a standalone though, oh crowley swears a lil, or rather: near drowning, sort of.... kind of...... not exactly but better safe than sorry, theres lots of pain and not just the usual emotional pain that is a Staple of this series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-25
Updated: 2019-08-25
Packaged: 2020-09-26 11:16:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,347
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20388814
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bene_elim/pseuds/bene_elim
Summary: In which Aziraphale agrees to cover a job for Crowley on the Isle of Wight, a case of mistaken identity on the ferry leads to him being thrown overboard, and it takes a gift from Crowley to get him back on his feet.-"‘Over with him!’ One of the men cried, and suddenly there were two hands clenching his coat and bruising his shoulders and he could feel himself being lifted upwards in such a surreal moment of weightlessness that he wondered briefly whether his wings had become unsheathed without his knowledge and were carrying him away from all this nonsense, and then he was falling, fingers painfully catching the rails on the ferry’s side. The sting kept his mind off the sensation of complete despair."





	Interlude: The Isle of Wight Temptation (Or: How Aziraphale Came to be Thrown Off a Ferry)

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! This is just an interlude based on a short exchange between Crowley and Aziraphale in _Three Thousand Kisses_ that I was dying to add a backstory to. It's quite independent, though. I have a few things to mention but they're just notes so feel free to skip. 
> 
> 1\. This was truly meant to be between 2000 and 3000 words; I have no idea how it got to over 8000. It's longer than the last (chaptered, main) part of this series was. It's making me slightly mad. I considered splitting it into chapters but thought that since it's just an interlude I'd better leave it as it is. 
> 
> 2\. This was also 100% meant to be _humorous_ and I have _no idea what happened_. Clearly I can't write anything but pain. I thought it would be fun to do a short little story about how Aziraphale got thrown off the side of a boat once, and it became this monster. 
> 
> 3\. The church I write about on the Isle of Wight is _completely_ made up. However the _'experts at Ely'_ refers to the stained glass museum at Ely Cathedral (which is _not_ made up and quite a nice place to visit).
> 
> 4\. Finally a use for my strange knowledge of old English perfume houses! Floris's _Roman Hyacinth_ has a special story for me, but Penhaligon's _Jubilee Bouquet_ was chosen at (almost) random. Neither are sold anymore, but let's just pretend that they are so that Aziraphale can continue using them. 
> 
> 5\. Yes, I am completely aware that a dip in the English Channel or the Solent could be fatal to one who does not know how to swim (or is not very good at swimming), least of all because of the very strong currents. This is a story. Don't go jumping from boats, kids. I am also completely aware that a passenger would not be _thrown off the side of the ferry_ no matter what the situation is - but, like I said, this is a story. Anything can happen in fiction. 
> 
> 6\. Last but not least, I would like to send my thanks once again to all those who read and comment. 
> 
> Enjoy!

There was something to be said about the autumn this year. It seemed crisper than normal, more tangible and yet still ethereal. It no longer felt like the waiting space of indeterminate weather between summer and winter as it normally did: it was finally its own entity. 

Aziraphale relished it. 

He glanced in what he hoped to be a dismissive way at his companion. 

‘No. I shall not even entertain the thought, Crowley.’ He said, as haughtily as possible. 

‘Come on, Aziraphale! Not even just one _tee-ee-eeny tiny _temptation?’ Crowley asked, arm slung around the back of the park bench they were upon and body leaning forward. 

‘Absolutely not!’

‘Why? What happened to our Arrangement? I’ll do that blessing in Manchester for you, I know you hate the place, and you take the temptation job on the Isle of Wight. Fair trade!’

‘I was reprimanded last week. Heaven’s watching more closely, now.’ Aziraphale insisted. He shiftily eyed the many other park-goers, suspiciously glaring at the suited-up ones. You never knew if they were diplomats and secret agents or angels. 

‘Heaven’s not watching shit. Come on, angel, they never cared and they still don’t. If they did, wouldn’t you have been asked for, I don’t know, updates on the situation between America and Russia, or something?’ 

Aziraphale clicked his tongue and opened his mouth to retort, but found that he had nothing to say. The truth was, he was quite sure Crowley was right. 

‘…And what does this temptation entail, pray?’ He asked, hesitance and reluctance dripping from his voice. He hated himself for even asking, for encouraging this behaviour, in Crowley _and _in himself. Every time he let Crowley rope him into making use of their Arrangement, he felt a small acidic pit of self-disgust and hate stir in his stomach. For some reason, though, he never stopped himself from doing it again. That’s how he always ended up here, hearing Crowley out and ignoring how it felt. 

Crowley grinned, something feral and proud and knowing, like he’d anticipated that he’d win Aziraphale over eventually. 

‘Just the usual nonsense, encouraging a priest to steal money from a church, no big deal. Just incite some greed in him and you’ll be done with it. Not like it’s too terrible, either; I know how you stand on churches and all that.’

Aziraphale did not know, nor had he the patience to figure out, how to tell Crowley that his opinion on churches did not condone stealing from them. He heaved a great sigh instead. 

‘_You _do that for me, and _I’ll _make sure you don’t have to step foot fifty miles of Manchester. I’ll cover that silly blessing for you. What do you say?’

Perhaps it wasn’t quite so bad. Manchester really _did_ inspire a hopelessness in him that he hoped to never feel again.

‘Yes, _fine_, I’ll do it.’ He said, throwing his hands up in what he hoped was an exasperated gesture that showed Crowley just how put out he was by this. ‘When do I have to go?’

‘Well… As soon as possible, really,’ Crowley replied with a wink. 

-

This is how Aziraphale found himself on a ferry to the Isle of Wight, cold air whipping around his hair and spitting sea dampening his clothes. He stood at the stern, watching the mainland sink further and further away. He turned towards the bow. The island was fast approaching. 

‘Say, sir, you’ll be wanting directions or s’mthing?’ A burly man said as he sidled up to Aziraphale’s side. 

Aziraphale turned a questioning eye to him. 

‘Ey, it’s just, y’know, you got this strange look about you, an’ you got no luggage with you nor nothin’, so I wondered, is all.’ 

‘No, dear fellow,’ Aziraphale said, ‘I’m perfectly alright. I just have an errand to run and then I’m going home.’ 

‘Well, alright, if you say so. I’ll be here if you be needing anything.’ The man said, walking away. He seemed to be an assistant crewman. Aziraphale sent a small blessing his way to grant an easy day at work and a pleasant evening with his wife and daughter; he felt like should at least _try_ to do something to counteract the temptation that he was about to perform. 

He wondered briefly how Crowley was getting on. 

He’d never encountered problems with the work that Crowley did on his behalf. He supposed that the same could be said for Crowley, since all he ever said was _Thanks, angel_, and the whole thing would be wrapped up and not spoken of until they had to make use of the Arrangement again. Heaven truly never did seem to realise that the miracles they had assigned _him _to do weren’t really being done by _him_ at all. Still, he couldn’t help wondering whether the action of blessing someone, of granting kindness and bestowing goodness, left Crowley feeling in the same way that accomplishing a temptation left him, Aziraphale, feeling. 

Regardless, the main thing was that _it got done_. That was the whole point. It wasn’t wrong, was it? They were just being efficient. 

Cowes was becoming more defined than just a landmass in the distance. Aziraphale refocused himself. If he did a bad job, it would be Crowley who was reprimanded. Besides, Aziraphale always prided himself on a job well and properly done, even if that job _was _a temptation. 

-

Aziraphale hadn’t been to the Isle of Wight in decades, not since he’d last visited Queen Victoria at Osborne House. He wandered the streets of Cowes somewhat lost - in his mind, not on his feet. His feet knew exactly where to take him. 

The air smelt of salt, rough like sandpaper on his skin. The quaint streets were arranged higgledy-piggledy like a child had drawn them, the buildings strung together and held in place by bunting. It felt like most other seaside towns, though perhaps with a slight tinge of isolation. Despite being well connected to the mainland and not lacking a single thing on its own high-street, it was as though it was far removed from the rest of England. Aziraphale wasn’t sure whether he enjoyed the feeling or not. 

He eventually looked back down from his wandering gaze when he came in front of a church. He looked at the notice board standing a few feet away, advertising events and encouraging actions of love. It claimed its name was All Saint’s Church. The very place Aziraphale had to be. 

He wondered what Crowley would have done to accomplish this temptation, since he wouldn’t have been able to visit the priest inside the church. Would he have waited and waited until he exited the building and went somewhere not on consecrated ground? 

No use worrying about it. Crowley wasn’t here. _He _was. 

He stepped into the ancient graveyard and purposely walked towards the doors hoping he looked more confident than he felt, for his stomach was rolling with anxiety. It always was, when he had to do one of Crowley’s jobs. To sooth himself, he thought of how much worse his anxiety would be if he’d had to go to Manchester. He trailed his fingers over the fading, moss covered gravestones and sent blessings to the dead for peaceful rest, wherever they were. _Anything _to counteract the deed he was about to perform. 

He swung the doors open and peered inside. 

It was seemingly deserted, but most churches seem that way at first. It was also quite dark, but that was true of most churches, too. The stone slabs beneath his feet were so old and worn they shone, smooth and slippery; the stone pillars along the nave were adorned with threadbare banners. There was a small panel of stained glass above the alter, depicting in bleeding colours the crucifixion of Christ. Gushing reds, seeping yellows, weeping blues and leaking greens. They cast a translucent shadow on the ground, as ethereal as Aziraphale. 

He felt himself relax a fraction. He might not believe that churches are a necessity in the worship of God, but he still felt a certain calmness within them. The illusion that nothing bad could reach him within the stone walls. 

But that was all it was: an illusion. A demon may not be able to step foot inside, but bad intentions couldn’t be stopped by mere brick. The feeling of peace ended almost as soon as he felt it, reminded as he was that he was here to do _bad_ rather than any angelic capacity. 

The priest popped his head round from a door Aziraphale hadn’t noticed before. 

‘Ah,’ he said, walking towards Aziraphale, hands clasped gently in front of him. Modest hands. Hands that Aziraphale had to tempt into stealing. ‘Is there something I could help with, sir?’ 

_Yes_, Aziraphale thought, _tell me why an angel finds it so easy to do bad. _

‘I just came in to have a look. It’s a beautiful church.’ Aziraphale said. 

The priest beamed. ‘Yes, it is, isn’t it? There’s been a church standing here since 1789, but it was partially destroyed by Nazi bombing during World War Two, so it was rebuilt in 1955. The stained glass is original, though,’ he said, pointing to it, ‘they managed to salvage it; it was restored by some experts at Ely a couple of decades ago.’ 

He turned back to Aziraphale, who was looking at the stained glass with longing. 

‘You didn’t come here to talk about the history of this church, did you?’ The priest asked, walking down the nave and sitting in a pew near the front. Aziraphale followed helplessly, sinking next to him. 

‘No, father, I didn’t.’ Aziraphale said. The priest did not speak; Aziraphale knew what he was doing: silence encourages talk. It was a technique he used on Crowley, sometimes. 

Crowley. Temptation. He was here to tempt. 

‘What makes someone evil, father?’ He asked, instead. 

The priest was quiet for a moment, the sort of quiet one is when thinking hard. 

‘I don’t believe that any person is evil. They make choices. Sometimes a choice is a bad one, and then they have the chance to redeem themselves and repent. Every human has capacity for good. It’s just a matter of whether that’s what they choose.’ 

Aziraphale wanted to sob. _Yes_, he _knew_ that, he’d been telling Crowley for years that humans and their choices were the most important part of the ineffable plan. But what about himself? What about Crowley? 

_What makes an angel do bad?_

He thought of Gabriel and Uriel and Michael and Sandalphon. He thought of the despairing looks they’d always send him whenever he was called upon to relay his latest report. He thought of himself, always willing to dole out ‘_frivolous_’ miracles and yet still also willing to do the Other Side’s jobs, too. No matter what he did, he could never be a good enough angel, not in Heaven’s eyes and not in his own. 

He sighed. This was a mere human who had reign over the spiritual education of other humans, but he could never truly know anything about the divine. Aziraphale could ask and ask, _What makes an angel do bad?_ and he’d never get an answer. He could ask other angels (at his own risk), but still didn’t think he’d ever learn why. He was the only angel who’d ever really inclined towards less-than-angelic tendencies. 

Food, for instance. Or keeping the company of a demon and the subsequent completion of jobs that were decidedly _not_ Heaven-sent. That was a big one. 

Aziraphale took a breath. This was not the time for self-pity or for discussions of good and evil with the target of the temptation he was meant to perform. The longer he talked to him, the more attached he’d get, and the harder it would be to do what he came for. 

How would Crowley do it? Whisper sweet, wooing words and talk him into greed, just like that? Or would he just manipulate the man’s mind with a click of his fingers and insert the thought as though it had always been there, with no more effort than that?

Well, Aziraphale didn’t think he had the energy nor the courage for the first method. He’d have to take the cold, surgical approach. 

The priest was looking up at the stained glass, love in his eyes and heart yet innocent. He seemed to think that Aziraphale was in mere need of companionship, and sitting with a stranger was something he could easily and joyfully do. Aziraphale wanted to cry at how much love he felt radiating off the man. Love for the church, and for the Church, and for God and for all his fellow humans. And Aziraphale was about to be the reason this love would forsake him. 

Closing his eyes, for he didn’t want to look at the sorry man any longer, Aziraphale introduced a little seed of Doubt into his mind, one which would take root and bloom into Greed. He didn’t do it with any pomp or circumstance, no clicking fingers or clapping hands or stomping feet, no invocation to Hell and all its Demonic Powers. It was as simple as encouraging love in someone, only in the other direction. He felt wretched. 

The priest showed no indication that anything had happened, but Aziraphale could tell it worked, for now he looked at the stained glass with critical eyes instead of loving ones. Perhaps he was thinking that if there was enough money to restore a piece of poorly made stained glass, then there would be enough money for him to dip his hand in unnoticed. Aziraphale didn’t really want to speculate, but unfortunately he couldn’t help the way his mind raced. 

‘Thank you, father,’ he said, standing up. ‘I hope you have a pleasant evening.’ He resisted the urge to bestow a blessing on the man, to make his dinner particularly nice-tasting that evening or his sleep particularly restful. A blessing and a temptation completed on the same being within such a short space of time probably _would _attract Heaven’s (or worse, Hell’s) attention. 

‘You as well,’ the priest replied, standing and watching Aziraphale retreat back up the nave towards the door. ‘Blessings be with you.’ 

_Blessings be with you, _indeed. 

-

Aziraphale hadn’t been ready to head back to the mainland (and, subsequently, Crowley) right after finishing at the church. He walked around Cowes, taking in the sea air, looking out over the strait. Eventually he felt prepared to board the ferry home, the sun starting to dip in the sky. He was cold and hoping for a nice dinner when he got back to London. Maybe he’d go to the sushi place he liked. 

The ferry was rather full, much more crowded than the one he had taken that morning. People wanted to go home, having had a good day out. It was chilly and Aziraphale could predict a light autumn drizzle coming; he hoped he’d be off the ferry by the time it started, and not standing under it in the cold. 

He was pushed up against the bow by the crowds. He turned his back on them and tried to ignore the jostling and shouting behind him, content to watch the mainland come back into view. Any other day, he might’ve made conversation with a few of the other passengers, given a few secret blessings, miracled the ferry to go a little faster. But today, he lacked the energy. He lacked the motivation. He lacked the ability to _care_. The temptation had exhausted him mentally, as every temptation that he covered for Crowley did. 

But he was on his way home now. It was over and he could relax, and, in a few hours, he could settle down with a book and forget about the whole blasted business. 

‘Oy, tha’s the guy there!’ A voice somewhere within the crowd yelled. Aziraphale twitched at the volume, loud enough to be heard even over the ferry’s engine and the rush of water parting under them. He ignored it, too tired to get involved; today he was playing the bastard, and the sun hadn’t set yet. 

‘Hey! You!’ Another voice shouted. Aziraphale could hear a commotion happening behind him, people shuffling around and people shouting, but he continued to stare out towards Southampton. He _really_ didn’t want to get involved. 

_‘Oy, I’m talking to you, mate!’ _

A rough hand grabbed Aziraphale’s shoulder and clenched tight in his poor, poor coat. All he could think of as he was pushed aggressively round to face the stern was, _I’ll never get the wrinkles out_. 

‘Can I help you, gentlemen?’ Aziraphale asked gently. The man who had yet to unhand him growled angrily and his companion a few steps behind him seemed to scoff. They appeared to be crewmen. Aziraphale could forgive them their aggression, but he really did want to salvage his coat. 

‘Yeah, play all polite now, you wanker,’ one of them spat. Aziraphale’s brows struggled not to raise in surprise at being called such a name - not that he was unaccustomed to being called horrible things, but he just hadn’t done anything to deserve it, this time. 

‘This the bloke?’ The other asked. 

‘Yeah, this is the guy,’ his companion replied. Then, addressing Aziraphale, he said, ‘You think you can punch one of our men an’ get away wi’ it?’ 

‘...What?’ Was the eloquent reply that Aziraphale gave. 

‘You’re the one that clocked Dave ‘round the face, ain’t you? An’ I bet you thought you’d get away wi’ it, too, eh? Well, naw - you gotta deal with _us!_’ 

‘My good men!’ Aziraphale cried out, desperate since the hand in his coat had started to tighten and twist in preparation to yank him about. ‘There has been some mistake! I can _assure_ you, I have no earthly knowledge of what you are accusing me of!’ 

His plea fell on deaf ears. The men hauled Aziraphale towards a set of stairs leading below the busy deck, and away from all the prying eyes. He was almost glad for that, since he could just feel every single one of their gazes boring into him. 

‘This really _is_ a case of mistaken identity, I’m afraid,’ Aziraphale continued to insist as he was dragged. To his utmost disappointment and utter confusion, the two men stopped just before the stairwell. ‘Sirs?’ He tried, hoping he’d had some success in getting through to them. 

‘Over with him!’ One of the men cried, and suddenly there were two hands clenching his coat and bruising his shoulders and he could feel himself being lifted upwards in such a surreal moment of weightlessness that he wondered briefly whether his wings had become unsheathed without his knowledge and were carrying him away from all this nonsense, and then he was falling, fingers painfully catching the rails on the ferry’s side. The sting kept his mind off the sensation of complete despair. 

The fall couldn’t have lasted more than three seconds, the ferry not being all that big at all. To Aziraphale, those three seconds were the longest of his life, spanning eons and eons; he felt each one last a thousand years, and he knew exactly how long a thousand years could last. The pulsing ache of his fingers was at once distant and so intense that he could hardly think of anything else, not the wind rushing past him or the possibility of actually taking his wings out to stop his fall or how this might be punishment, in some karmic way, for what he had done to the poor priest. 

The moment he hit the water, time seemed to either stop or return to its normal speed. Aziraphale couldn’t tell; all he knew was an intense coldness the likes of which he’d never felt before, so cold and so deep in his bones that he wondered whether he’d been incased in a liquid nitrogen container. His throbbing fingers were now the least of his worries: Aziraphale had never really learnt to swim, being more a flying creature than a water one, and he was rapidly sinking. The Solent was much darker underneath than it looked on the surface; he could barely make out the underside of the ferry, speeding off towards Southhampton. At least he knew which direction he should _try_ to head in. 

The currents were fighting him at every movement and, were he human, he would have surely have died by now. They were so strong, threatening to wash him out and desert his corpse somewhere far away. Angels in human corporations weren’t particularly stronger than the average human: they were just as easily killable and weak-bodied, for it was their ethereal bodies that contained their strength. The bad news was that, on Earth, you had to have planned permission to shed your human corporation and run around in your True Form; the good news was that the resilience of ethereal bodies bled a little into their human shell-casing. It was this resilience that had stopped Aziraphale from discorporating yet. But he could feel it happening. 

He drew in a large breath in terror and desperation, and belatedly realised how terrible an idea that was. Water filled his lungs as horror filled his heart and he clawed at the water, fighting it, the intangible entity that it was. He felt himself sink further downwards and, water-lunged and delirious, he wondered whether this was at all similar to Falling, and decided that he would ask Crowley. 

As his eyes were slipping shut, one last sliver of unadulterated fear caused his wings to unfurl. In the water, they only weighed him down more, quickly taking in water and becoming too heavy to properly move - but he was able to give one, two, three desperate, _desperate_ beats that seemed to propel him upward. The water became lighter, sparkling; he weakly stretched an arm out and resisted the urge to gasp in more water when his bruise-purple fingers broke the surface and felt the wind brush along them. Then he started to sink again, so he pushed with all his might, his only thought being that if he discorporated now, he’d have to explain to Heaven what he’d been doing on the Isle of Wight. 

His head broke the surface, and then his shoulders. He gasped and spluttered and coughed, water leaking from his mouth and nose and droplets running from his hair to his collarbone. Loose feathers, whiter than anything on Earth, floated everywhere. He tried to put his wings away, back onto another plane not visible or tangible to the human eye, but they were too heavy and difficult to manoeuvre and imbued with Earthly substances (seawater) to do anything with except leave them exactly as they were, out in the open and dragging him back down. 

With a sob that he couldn’t afford to give since he was still choking for air, Aziraphale wished for Crowley. He wished, first, that he’d taken the blessing in Manchester after all and had never set foot near the Isle of Wight. _Then_ he wished for Crowley, since nothing could be done about his first wish now. He needed help. How could he get back to the mainland himself, weak and near hypothermia as he was? The air was frigid against his wet skin and his lungs were still hacking up mouthfuls of saltwater. 

Miserably, he tried to swim in the direction he’d seen the ferry speed off. Down in the water, the mainland wasn’t quite as visible as it had been on the ferry’s deck, but it couldn’t be too far. No part of the Isle was all that far from the mainland, really. 

It was agonising and he nearly went under again and again and it took hours, but eventually Aziraphale managed to drag himself up onto the beach of Calshot. The sun had fully gone beyond the horizon not too long ago, darkness settling in for its shift, and the temperature had dropped. For Aziraphale, wet and still in shock as he was, it felt deadly. He lay splayed on the shingle, breathing raggedly, shivering madly, and so scared still that he could hardly see straight. His wings sprawled either side of him and he knew, distantly, that he’d have to either put them away or leave altogether by the time the sun rose and anyone found him. But he didn’t have the energy. He hadn’t had the energy even before he’d been thrown into the water; he _certainly_ didn’t have it now. 

He lay and lay and dawn found him, still dazed and weak, still laying. His only luck was that it was a weekday and that Calshot seemed to be a fairly quiet area. With a groan that burnt his abused throat, he tried to fold his wings back where they belonged, but with no luck. They were still soaking wet, the night chill not having helped dry him off at all. 

He wished for Crowley again. He wished he’d let Crowley buy him one of those portable telephones that had been invented a few years ago; he’d been so against them, at first, but it was exactly what he would’ve needed now. You never knew what you were missing until you were missing it. 

With aches shooting up every limb, Aziraphale pushed himself upright. As he stood, he swayed, the tips of his primaries dragging uncomfortably against the ground and dripping, dripping. His clothes weighed him down just as much as his wings, particularly (he hated to admit) his velveteen waistcoat, but he hadn’t the strength to miracle himself dry. Salt crusted in his hair. With grief he discovered that he’d lost his pocket watch somewhere in the water. 

At the sandy bottom of the Solent strait there lay, peaceful and now useless, a pocket watch plated with gold. A relic that could be found in a thousand years and deemed ancient and precious. Aziraphale mourned its loss keenly. He’d been given it as a gift in 1827 by Catherine Blake; she’d had it made after her husband died and had inscribed his last words on its back. _You have ever been an angel to me._ Aziraphale had always had an inkling that she’d known what he was; she’d been a very smart woman. A very kind and talented woman. 

He felt more tears slip down his cheeks and angrily fought them. He didn’t have the time nor the energy to cry. He had to find a way to somehow get back to London inconspicuously. 

Establishing once more that he could not put his wings away, he decided to try the opposite, as it were, and fly. Stretching them out, he mustered all his dwindling strength and beat them as hard as he could, crying out at the agony it caused him. Slowly, he rose a few inches off the ground, then a few feet. They were so heavy, sodden with water as they were, and he was so weak; it felt like they were being torn from his back and he almost lost concentration, dropping wildly for a moment like a stone plummeting, before he refocused himself and beat them again, rising higher.

With the same amount of pain and desperation as it had taken him to swim from the centre of the Solent to the shore, Aziraphale landed in a heap at the doorstep of his bookshop. His fall had been a hard one, his wings giving out just over Soho; he’d had barely enough energy left to direct himself to the shop before he’d collapsed on the pavement outside it. It had caused a commotion, a person appearing seemingly out of nowhere and with _wings_ on his back; Aziraphale had just enough reserve of energy left to miracle the witnesses’ memories wiped, unlock the door to the bookshop, and crawl inside, before falling on his face and blacking out. 

-

When Aziraphale woke, it was to an ache pounding in his head and a fist pounding on his door. Groaning, he stood, wobbled precariously and stabilised himself on a bookshelf, and noticed that his wings were still on the corporeal plane. They were dry now, but stiff, crusted with salt; with difficulty, he forced them to fold against his back and disappear into the ethereal plane. He’d have to take care of them later, as much as he hated doing so - they needed cleaning and combing and plucking, from the feel of it. 

Readjusting his tattered clothing (and miracling that back to normal too; it went against his principals, normally, but he had an idea who was behind the pounding at the door and he didn’t want the culprit to see him like this), he shakily went and opened the bookshop doors. He barely had time to open his mouth to say a greeting before Crowley came pushing into the shop, a chaotic whirlwind that left Aziraphale dizzy and swaying, still weak. 

‘Where in Go- Sat- _Someone’s_ name have you been, angel?’ Crowley cried; Aziraphale winced, his head throbbing. 

‘I’ve been here,’ he said. It wasn’t technically a lie. 

‘Bullshit! I’ve come by the shop every day this past week and there’s been no answer! I’d have used that key you gave me if you hadn’t answered today. What the fuck, Aziraphale?’ 

Aziraphale took a moment to be glad that Crowley _hadn’t_ used the spare bookshop key he had, for he really would not have wanted to explain to his friend why he had been lying prone, face down, wings out. Moment passing, he shrugged, deciding to ignore (as he generally did anyway) Crowley’s use of profanity. 

‘I must have been caught up reading. I found the most _delightful_ volume of Milton’s poetry on the Isle of Wight; it’s all I’ve been able to focus on for - how long did you say it had been?’ 

‘A week. Milton, angel, really?’ Crowley said, scepticism colouring his tone; Aziraphale tried not to look as guilty as he felt, lying as he was. 

‘A week? Oh, dear...’ he said, instead. He’d been out of it for a whole week. Out of commission for seven days. No wonder Crowley had been ready to use his key to get into the shop; normally, they had a sort of a ‘debrief’ meet up a day or two after their respective jobs were completed, just to let each other know how it went and any details they’d need to be aware of should their bosses come asking. 

‘Yeah, _oh dear_’s right, angel. What happened to our post-job meet?’ 

‘I quite forgot,’ Aziraphale tried to insist. The look on Crowley’s face told him he wasn’t buying any of it; luckily, though, he hadn’t guessed that anything had gone wrong. All Aziraphale had to do was keep him from figuring anything out. No sense in worrying him when it was all over, now, was there? 

‘Whatever,’ Crowley said, moving past him and into the backroom which was as untouched now as it had been a week ago; Aziraphale surreptitiously miracled a few candles lit, hoping that Crowley wouldn’t notice. He didn’t; he just sunk in his armchair. 

Aziraphale desperately wanted to sit in his own chair opposite, but he was afraid that if he sat he would relax, and then he would start showing signs of all the pains he was currently trying to keep hidden. So instead he stood, awkwardly and anxiously, shifting from one foot to the other despite the aching it sent up both legs; every part of him felt raw and broken, and he felt every inch the six thousand years that he was. 

‘Well, the blessing in Manchester went about how you’d expect,’ Crowley said. Aziraphale hummed in distant comprehension. ‘I just popped over to the guy’s house and told him to set himself straight, planted an idea for a charity to help the local homeless in his mind, then wiped his memory clean of me and went home. Simple.’ 

‘Jolly good,’ Aziraphale said, slightly swaying. Perhaps it would be a good idea for him to sit down after all. 

‘How’d it go for you?’ 

‘Oh, you know, the usual,’ Aziraphale replied; finally, he decided that he couldn’t stand and talk, since Crowley demanded so much energy right now, so he fell into his chair with a lack of grace unusual for him. ‘I went to the priest’s church and planted a little bit of Doubt into his mind. In a month, perhaps, or two, maybe, it’ll grow into Greed and he shall act on it.’ It made him feel as wretched as a lungful of seawater had. 

‘Right, good to know,’ Crowley said, ‘Anything else?’ 

Aziraphale hesitated. He was still feeling so weak, so sorry for himself; he was utterly drained, having used so much of his energy and power to stay alive and get himself home. He’d been thrown off a boat, nearly drowned, nearly drowned again, and then stranded on a freezing beach - and then he’d still had to find the energy to fly home. He wanted comfort. He wanted to feel safe, finally, for the fear he had first felt as he fell from the ferry was still alive in his heart. 

Weakly, he said, ‘They threw me off the boat.’ 

The beginnings of a smile started to play at Crowley’s mouth. 

‘Who?’ 

‘The men on the ferry. They threw me off the side.’ 

Crowley’s grin expanded and before he could break into laughter, Aziraphale cried, ‘Don’t you laugh!’ 

Immediately, Crowley’s face straightened, though it was clear that he was just holding back chuckles. 

‘They _threw you off the ferry_?’ Crowley asked incredulously. 

Miserable, Aziraphale nodded. He knew he should have kept quiet about the whole affair.

A grin slipped through a crack in Crowley’s terrible attempt at keeping serious. ‘That’s hilarious. Angel, _you were thrown off a boat_. How does that even _happen_?’ He cackled. 

‘It wasn’t funny, Crowley.’ Aziraphale muttered, though it seemed to fall on deaf ears. 

‘What happened, Aziraphale?’ 

Aziraphale shrugged. He was still unclear on that himself. ‘I think they mistook me for someone else, someone who had assaulted a member of their crew. They didn’t want to listen when I told them they had made a mistake, they just threw me over.’ 

‘Oh, that’s even _more_ brilliant!’ Crowley cried, somehow delighting in this story. ‘They mistook you for _someone else_? How many _someone else_s wear velvet waistcoats and beige everything and bow ties and a pocket watch? Hold on - where _is_ your pocket watch?’ 

Aziraphale’s eyes slid shut, remorse and grief in his heart. His hand went to where his pocket watch would be, if he still had it; he couldn’t get used to the feeling of it not being there, of its comforting weight missing from his pocket or its chain hanging down his front. 

‘I lost it in the sea.’ He said. His tone was such that it sobered Crowley from his delight. 

‘I’m sorry, angel,’ he said. Crowley knew how much Aziraphale had loved that pocket watch. 

With a shrug and an expression like he was trying to mask how much it affected him, Aziraphale said, ‘Nothing to be done,’ and looked out the bookshop window. Crowley continued to eye him carefully, subdued now; he couldn’t see the salt-crust or the aches, but he could very well see the exhaustion. 

With a sorry smile and half a plan forming in his head, he stood and bid Aziraphale goodbye, though clearly Aziraphale wasn’t paying too much attention to him anymore. He walked out the bookshop with a destination in mind. 

-

Piccadilly was bustling. Crowley harshly pulled the Bentley up on a nearby street, paying no mind to the cries of angry workmen and shoppers as he got in their way. 

There was nothing he could do for Aziraphale’s lost pocket watch, for the sea was a monster that devoured all that came within its watery jaws, and he’d always had a little trouble performing miracles involving water. It was the opposing energies, he suspected: demons were very much _fiery, _not _watery,_ beings. 

What he could do, though, was buy a gift for Aziraphale to sooth the loss, maybe. He daren’t go for a replacement pocket watch, for he knew the meaning the lost one had for Aziraphale, even if he did not know its origins. But perhaps he could look into buying him a wristwatch, instead. It was about time that he moved onto more modern things, in Crowley’s opinion. 

As he walked through Burlington Arcade, he stared unimpressed into the windows of several apparently very reputable jewellers and watch-makers. Nothing seemed to catch his eye, nothing was special enough or good enough or _Aziraphale _enough. Every watch he came across was as boring and dull as the last, and they started to blur in his mind to become one singular, leather-strapped, unremarkable thing. He turned his eye to cufflinks, instead, but to the same effect; finally, he looked for tie clips or collar pins; it was a shame that tie pins had gone out of fashion, for Crowley knew that Aziraphale still sometimes wore a cravat instead of a tie or a bow tie. 

But alas, those were few and far between and just as unremarkable as the watches and cufflinks.

As he was about to give up and try elsewhere (Harrod’s, perhaps, or across in Piccadilly Arcade), he walked past a burgundy shopfront, _Penhaligon’s_ written in gold in the window. A delightful smell was emanating from within; Crowley felt himself stopped in front of the display window, gazing thoughtfully at the bottles it held. Perfume. He’d never considered it, but it seemed to make sense, somehow. Aziraphale always smelt nice, it was a thought that registered on some very distant level with Crowley, as if he’d made a note of it but without even realising. Maybe a bottle of a new scent could help phase him into a new stage of his life, help him move on from losing his pocket watch. It wasn’t that simple, Crowley was very well aware - but sometimes you needed the illusion that it could be. 

He opened the door with a little jingle of the bell above it. Inside it smelt much stronger; it was floral and light, indiscernible as though it were more the culmination of many scents than just one particular one. 

‘May I be of assistance, sir?’ A young lady asked from the small counter, tucked in a corner.

‘Yes,’ Crowley said, more certain now that this was a good choice to make - certainly much better than a wristwatch or or accessory. This seemed so _Aziraphale_ that he didn’t know how he hadn’t thought of it before. 

The girl looked expectantly at Crowley, clearly waiting for him to expand. She looked hardly twenty, but eager and dedicated; she was exactly what he had been, once, a very long time ago. He dearly hoped, in an unusual moment of tenderness, that she wouldn’t grow to become like him. 

‘Yes,’ he continued, ‘I’m looking for a gift for a friend of mine.’ 

‘Would you prefer a more feminine fragrance, or something more masculine?’ She asked, already looking at the circular table displaying the shop’s collection accessibly. 

‘Eh - I’m not sure,’ Crowley said, straining to think. Gender wasn’t really something either he or Aziraphale took too much interest in, though Aziraphale did present as male more often than not. It wasn’t that that made much difference; it was that he wanted to get something at least a little bit similar to the fragrance that Aziraphale commonly wore, so that it wouldn’t be a huge leap into something new and potentially not to his taste. The problem was that he wasn’t entirely sure he remembered what kind of scent Aziraphale’s current cologne was. 

‘Do they use anything now?’ 

‘Yeah. He uses… I don’t know what it is, really, though I think it’s old because he’d been using the same thing for a… long time. It’s a little like flowers, maybe? Though I couldn’t say which.’ Crowley said, knowing he was being thoroughly unhelpful but unable to provide more information than that. 

‘Floral, alright, well, there’s this…?’ The girl said, lifting a glass cone to Crowley’s nose. He inhaled, then quickly shook his head. 

‘Oh, no, that’s a little… too heavy?’ 

‘Well, it’s a very masculine fragrance,’ she replied. Then she lifted another cone for Crowley to sniff. ‘This one is a little bit lighter, it’s an eau de toilette and has top notes of hyacinth.’ 

‘Hyacinth! That’s it!’ Crowley cried. He suddenly remembered seeing a small bottle of the stuff Aziraphale used abandoned haphazardly on a bookshelf, like he’d splashed the fragrance on and then left the bottle out absent-mindedly. Truthfully, Crowley was unsure whether or not Aziraphale even had somewhere to put all his personal, non-book objects. ‘Floris, _Roman Hyacinth_. That’s what he uses!’ 

The girl nodded like meant something to her, and moved around the table a few degrees. Her fingers danced over the glass cones and glass stoppers, skipping here then there in search for something specific. 

‘Ah, try this. It’s not quite the same, this is a more feminine fragrance with notes of bergamot, jasmine and sandalwood; it puts it on par with our masculine scents, since it’s quite woody.’ 

Crowley nodded along, pretending that he understood all that the woman was saying. He stuck his nose into the cone to test it, and then found himself shoving in deeper and trying to take another breath before he’d even released an exhale. It smelt perfect, the very thing he could imagine on Aziraphale. It was similar, like he wanted, to what Aziraphale used currently, but different, too: seemingly more complex. It would be perfect. 

As the girl wrapped it up in pretty paper and with a bow for him, Crowley couldn’t help but imagining walking into a bookshop smelling of it. It felt like it already had become a part of Aziraphale’s identity, this fragrance that he probably hadn’t even heard of yet. 

All Crowley had to do was deliver it. 

Paying and exiting the shop, he sauntered back to his car with a grin on his face. To those unknowing, it looked menacing and evil; if Aziraphale had been there, he’d have recognised it as Crowley’s determined, self-pleased smile. It could be the same thing, sometimes, but this afternoon it was certainly the smile of a self-satisfied demon. He felt so proud, in a strange way, that he’d found a gift so perfect. He truly hoped it would put a smile on Aziraphale’s face; he’d looked so sad and tired. 

How Aziraphale could be mistaken for someone else (someone who had violent tendencies, no less) bemused and astounded Crowley, though it was very amusing to think of. He imagined the way that one might try and pick Aziraphale up; he wasn’t all that tall but neither was he by any means _small_; his corporation was quite average. It wouldn’t be difficult, he supposed, but it just seemed too impossible. He also couldn’t help chuckling at the thought of Aziraphale trying to talk his way out of the whole situation: polite, non-confrontational Aziraphale, who even when frightfully angry maintained a composed and civil demeanour. The most worked up Crowley had ever seen him was in 1862, before he stormed off after their argument, but that had been a special case. Normally, he revealed no more emotion than he had prior to his head nearly being cut off during the Reign of Terror. It was typically British, one might say, but Aziraphale had been like that since before Britain existed. 

Placing the gift bag on the passenger seat, Crowley drove off, eager to be back at the bookshop and giving the present as soon as he could. As funny as imagining Aziraphale getting thrown off a boat _(seriously, how does that _happen_?) _could be, he didn’t think that getting a dunk in the sea could be all that fun, especially if Aziraphale lost his pocket watch along the way. He really could use some cheering up. 

-

Aziraphale had never in his entire life felt as tired as he did now. He thought back to all the times over the past six-thousand years that he’d discorporated - or nearly discorporated - and yet none had drained him and left him feeling dead like his dip in the Solent had. Was this how humans felt when they forgot to eat or went without sleep for too long? Suddenly he found himself respecting them in a new way. 

Crowley had left an indeterminate time ago and Aziraphale didn’t _think_ he had moved since, but he couldn’t be sure. Time felt like jelly in that it was wobbly and uncertain and of a constitution unclassifiable (was jelly liquid or solid? Aziraphale didn’t really know, he’d never liked jelly much, but now it was all he could think of. Time wasn’t going but it wasn’t stopped, either; he felt void. Was this what tiredness could do to a human? No wonder they slept so much). 

Afternoon light poured its beams into the bookshop and threatened to blind him; it seemed unnaturally bright and harsh, though it was warm and comforting to bask in. Sat in his chair, slumped at the table in a way that he would never approve of were he of sound mind and health, it felt like a blanket which he didn’t dare disturb. Maybe he stayed like that for minutes, maybe it was hours. Eventually, a click at the bookshop’s front door sounded, and the bell rang. 

Crowley walked into the backroom, though Aziraphale could barely pay attention to him. He was drifting. He absently wished that, as much as he normally enjoyed the company of his dear friend, he would go away. He wasn’t in any mood to see him. 

‘I bought you something, angel,’ Crowley said. He placed a little burgundy bag on the table by Aziraphale’s arm; blearily, Aziraphale rose his head to squint at it. 

‘What is it?’ 

‘Open it and find out.’ 

Slowly, he pulled on the bow keeping the bag’s handles together; it fell away so smoothly, it strangely reminded him of the way he tumbled overboard. His fingers twitched as he stared at it, then, somewhat realising that he was slightly delirious, he continued to pull apart at the tissue paper, eventually reaching the box it concealed. He held it cradled in both hands as he looked at it; then he looked at Crowley. 

‘Perfume?’ 

‘Well, it won’t replace the pocket watch, I know that, but I thought it’d help, or something. Besides, I wanted to thank you for doing the job. You got more than you signed up for.’ 

Aziraphale looked back at the box of perfume he held. With great care, he opened it up and removed the bottle from its depths, raising it to his eye level. It had a quirky bow around its neck, bright red and black that suited Crowley more than him, but it also had a very sweet label. _Jubilee Bouquet_, it claimed in curving gold lettering beneath a crown; _Penhaligon’s_ sat above it. He pulled the stopper out and sniffed; it was flowery but still just woody enough to make it interesting. It felt different from his normal cologne, but not worlds away: there was just enough difference to make him curious to try it. 

‘I… Thank you, Crowley,’ he said, gently holding the bottle like it was a precious relic. This was not the first time Crowley had bought him a gift - there had been numerous chocolates and wines and dinners and the occasional book or snuffbox, even a card from Croom once - but such actions from Crowley always left Aziraphale a little star-struck. He felt honoured and unworthy of such attentions, and confused as to why Crowley would do such things - and, if he was being completely honest with himself, deep, deep down inside he also felt scared that this was all just a part of a master plan to tempt him. 

Yet, he always pushed his doubts away and smiled his sweetest smile. He could not be tempted if he remained good friends with Ignorance. 

‘Whatever, angel.’ Crowley said, clearly trying to feign indifference to the situation, but his eyes softening at the way Aziraphale hugged the bottle to him, visible even from beneath his sunglasses. 

‘I shall wear it now,’ Aziraphale said, already undoing the stopper again and dabbing a bit where his pulse points would be, if he had a pulse. It was a lady’s scent, he believed, but that didn’t bother him. In fact, he liked it: he’d been looking for something a little lighter than his usual _Roman Hyacinth_. Already he felt a little bit rejuvenated, and some of his old excitement for the world returned to him. How sweet of Crowley to get such a thoughtful gift. 

He was right. It wouldn’t replace the pocket watch. But it was on par with it. Things didn’t quite seem so hopeless, anymore; the pain would fade and his energy would be restored, he caused enough good in the world (he liked to think) that he balanced out much of the bad, and eventually things would turn out just fine. He hadn’t made it out of that despairing sea and onto the shore for no reason, had he? He’d fought for his life and it was still rightfully his, rather than Heaven’s again while they gave him paperwork to fill out and put him on a waiting list for another body. How glad he was that he hadn’t had to suffer through that bureaucracy again. He might have called it hellish, had Crowley not told him a little about Hell’s own approach to paperwork (which was _actually_ Hellish).

He’ll wash the salt from his wings later, maybe put a little bit of Holy Water in his camomile tea before settling to read. But for now he could stand to have a drink with Crowley.

The memories of the sea would fade, he knew. He had time. 


End file.
